


if it takes a miracle

by jessequicksters



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: "Baking" or Crowley's definition of it: setting the kitchen on fire, Domestic, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessequicksters/pseuds/jessequicksters
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't quite understand why Crowley keeps calling him, and only him, angel. He keeps asking until—Crowley sets the kitchen on fire.





	if it takes a miracle

"Why do you always call me that?"

"What?"

"A-angel," it doesn't roll off Aziraphale's tongue the same way it does Crowley's, but Aziraphale figures that it’s finally time to ask. 6000 years and counting.

Crowley shrugs in a manner that suggests that the answer is completely obvious—to anyone but Aziraphale, that is. He continues vigorously whisking the cupcake batter he’s been so hellbent on making this afternoon.

"Because you are one," Crowley groans, sensing that a certain _angel_ was still waiting on an answer.

"You don't call Gabriel that. Or Michael. Or any other angel for the fact."

"It's because they're all fucking twats," Crowley waves off, eyes still focused on the batter. He's still wearing his sunglasses—not that that matters, Aziraphale can see through them, but it's about keeping up appearances.

Speaking of keeping up appearances, Aziraphale thinks he's become rather good at pretending to be human. He still struggles to think like one, though. They're usually quite intuitive when it comes to the thoughts and feelings of those closest to them, but with Crowley, Aziraphale still finds himself flummoxed at certain things.

Crowley grumbles under his breath, something about the batter being too runny as his patience seems to be running thin.

"Why do ingredients never just decide to fall into the perfect ratio!"

"Crowley, ah, you just need to add—"

"No matter how hard you try, it never comes out right!"

"—just toss a little more flour in, it'll be fine—"

"—endless centuries of labour and attempts at a good, sincere cultivation and for what—"

"I believe cakes are baked, not cultivated—"

"Argh!" Crowley wipes out everything on top of the table, before proceeding to set everything on fire.

Aziraphale jumps at the sight of the kitchen lighting up. He remembers soon after that he can actually do something about it. Right. Maybe that's why Crowley calls him _angel_ so much—to remind him since he so often forgets.

 _Miracle performed._ Water comes trickling through the ceiling and puts out the fire while leaving them dry. 

 _Miracle performed._ Most of the batter for the cupcakes turn out to be salvageable.

Aziraphale reaches for the flour, because Crowley is stubborn and refuses to follow recipes—

"Don't."

Crowley's hand is now on top of his. He takes off his sunglasses and gives him a serious look through those illuminating, sharp yellow reptilian eyes. They’re meant to be deadly upon first glance.

They're quite beautiful up close, actually.

Crowley's face quickly turns into a scowl when Aziraphale doesn’t budge. He just walks away from the table, fists curled up into tight balls.

"Why are you so upset today? Was it something I did?" Aziraphale trails behind him, voice squeaking.

"I don't like it when you're upset, Crowley! Tell me what I can do and we can fix this, whether that be the cake or—something else."

Crowley slowly turns around. Where Aziraphale expected a devilish smirk, the angel instead found a familiar, patient smile of an old friend.

"Do you know why I call you angel?"

Aziraphale chuckles nervously, briefly considering the question before throwing away the idea again. He was always wrong when it came to guessing games with Crowley. He might have been on the side of God, She With the Great Plan, but really, Aziraphale's learned that game of life (real, true mortal life) cannot be won with knowledge.

(Unless you're Agnes Nutter, that is, but that's an entirely different story.)

"No guesses? You're usually one to offer knowledge, impart some words of wisdom."

"I’m afraid I don't have much of that when it comes to you," Aziraphale admits, softly and with a timid smile.

Crowley's eyes widen a little.

"Right. Well, if you really want to know, the reason is that you're the only being worthy of that name, Aziraphale. Everyone else, blegh. Especially the ones up there."

He flips a bird to the sky and Aziraphale lets out a small giggle.

Crowley steps forward.

"So, that's why I call you angel. Because you really are a divine being, even if you're rather daft sometimes. No offence."

"None taken," Aziraphale blurts out, before realizing this is exactly what Crowley meant. His cheeks are flushed, a warm tingle running through him. It's an odd, yet pleasant sensation.

He's got his answer then. He isn't sure what to think. Crowley's already sauntering back onto the sofa and popping open a bottle of wine for two as if nothing’s just happened.

Not much has changed between the two of them over the course of 6000 years, but something has changed within Aziraphale. He now has something that came rather slow to him—acceptance. It feels good. Acceptance of himself. Acceptance of Crowley and how much they cared about each other.

He never knew what to call the feelings he's always held for Crowley, but it dawns on him now that it’s exactly what Crowley has been trying to communicate all this time.

A type of reverance for someone.

A person of divinity.

Is it love? 

Aziraphale's mind lights up, like Heaven's broken through and dropped an answer from the sky.

But it's not Heaven, no. It's just Crowley, on the sofa, spreading his legs a little wider as he leaves space for Aziraphale to sit on his lap, an open invitation which he takes. It feels nice and comfortable and right and divine. 

"You're my miracle! I understand now."

Crowley raises his eyebrows, "That would be the first time anyone's ever called me that."

"Yes, but you see—no one's ever called me angel and meant it the same way you do. I am not the perfect angel, not to anyone on my side. By the very same definition, you're far from being a miracle to most people—"

"Alright, we get it."

"But you are one, nonetheless. To me. And that's all that matters."

Crowley smiles, crystal clear eyes meeting Aziraphale’s in one of the most delicate of moments. He lays a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, massaging gently, which makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Human bodies are all so sensitive.

"Took you long enough," Crowley finally says, gently, throwing him that look that reads completely smitten. 

"After centuries of cultivation?" Aziraphale jokes.

"Don't push it."

"Fair enough, but I will insist that we re-attempt to bake those cupcakes. You promised afternoon tea, and I'm rather enjoying the seat I've got at this establishment."

"Mmm, and a recurring reservation for centuries."

 


End file.
